Haustoria
by lye tea
Summary: Life is a series of accidents, and love is the most inconvenient one. /Onigumo x Izayoi/


**A/N: **Written for iy_flashfic on LiveJournal.

* * *

**Haustoria**

_…on parasitic love, she was a virtuoso…_

**i.**

Her mother had been a third concubine (but a great "_favorite_") and so, it was predestined that she be one too. Long hair, lush and black, falling in the terribly licentiously desired _imagery_ of whorish waves. The strands buried her face, shoulders, and arms. (She was that frail.)

(As her name connoted) Izayoi was born on the sixteenth day of the six moon of the year something—six, lost and ancient almanac said it was auspicious.

"And out she came like a ball of pig-squealing oil!" (the mother laughed) this was a joke retold a thousand times, when the lights were dimmed and faces flushed, brooding, from alcoholic bliss.

Izayoi learned to blush at an early age. Her mother was an embarrassment—_crass_ and _vulgar_—and her father was incompetent and a fool. And as she warned them (no one listened) the father soon lost his estates, his wealth, his title, everything. And they became the fallen. And that was history.

On the last night (before the manor was to be confiscated, for "authorized search and investigation") Izayoi made a friend. He was sweet and tiny, like her, and reminded her of an undercooked grain of rice.

Pale and wan, almost sickly, he grabbed her hand and led her to a magical place. (Actually, it was just the underused, dilapidated garden behind an ordinary courtyard.)

"Look!" he said, crying it out like it was just the marvelous thing, "See how bright the moon is?"

_Yes, you idiot. I'm not blind_. "I do. It's very beautiful."

"It kind of reminds me of you."

"Oh, that's so…nice. Thank you."

"I know that you're a lady," he frowned, "And I'm just a gardener's assistant, but…Izayoi-sama, I love you."

_Daisuki, daisuki, daisuki desu, ai-shi-te-ru!_

"Oh….really, you shouldn't say such things that you don't mean."

"But I do! I've seen you, everywhere, I've loved you for years now."

She moved back, vanishing into the shadows cast by awnings and pillars (her eternal rampart). There was something ominous, something _insidious_ about his words, his tone. Izayoi grew frightened.

And fled.

And left him there in disarray and shame.

-

The first wife of the father died very young, very tragic, and very romantic (she had been a great beauty, and he loved her…honest). But the second wife was cunning and schemed a way to accrue money and more money (she was crazy).

But Izayoi's father liked that idea very much.

She took one look at Izayoi, sniffed, and angrily waved her aside. The girl was ten (therefore, worthless) and too much bother.

"Onigumo!" Second-Wife-Big-Mistress screamed, "Stupid boy, get over here now!"

He scampered over. The years had been disastrous. Stunted and starving, he stood cowering before her; shorter than her (he's already twelve). Hesitantly, he raised his eyes—_slap_—he lowered them.

"Are you hungry, Onigumo?" she smiled, terrifying.

But he nodded fervidly, the inside muscles of his stomach clenched violently, and he collapsed into the cheap, rain-soaked tatami mats.

"Good. I know. You're not used to this life, one of us are. But I can give you something to eat, if you do me a favor. It's very simple, a task, really."

He groaned something incoherent. She was pleased.

"Take this, it's a message, don't be so scared! And I want you to bring Izayoi to that house with the red lanterns, orange now, actually. And leave her there. Do you understand?"

Onigumo started shaking. She slapped him again. _Really_, disciplining children took such a tremendous toil on her body. She was too old for this. Her bones have long turned into tallow, and she was just waiting to be trimmed, plucked, and tossed into the pot.

-

A week later, the second wife is found dead (asphyxiated in her sleep was the official story). Onigumo approached the father with the weak-mind and the mother (only wife left) with the brittle-hair and proposed them a solution.

Another week later, Izayoi was sold for a hefty price. And they all ate well that tonight (Onigumo even purchased a few morsels of tender beef).

-

The mistress introduced herself with grand airs and large, protruding lips. She had a peculiar accent, which made it horribly difficult to decipher her words. Something like the sibilance of a snake or the soughing of soft leaf-sighs.

Izayoi strained to understand.

"You are here because your family is poor."

Simple, that she knew already.

"I am here because I have a compassionate heart and like to help out young girls. I am your new mother."

Her three chins jiggled, fat neck choking against the hundred-pearled strand. Arms flew upwards, brandished around, masking the room in hazy, yellow silk gauze. Izayoi heard the familiar jingling of silver bracelets (her mother always had a few on each arm). Gaudy but effective.

The mistress wrinkled her bulbous nose. "You should wash. You smell like day-old shit."

Izayoi suppressed the sudden urge to cry. Too late, the mistress saw, and twisted her arm backwards.

"Of course, I will expect to be repaid. What it took to buy you and your _other_ expenses."

**ii.**

She was now sixteen (her lucky-lucky, _doubly lucky_ number—the mistress liked to joke). Older, wiser (she liked to think) and infinitely more cynical about men. And love. That was the forbidden word. Never fall in love, never allow that.

And Izayoi was good, too much of a natural. She was a tease. And the men kept wanting more and more. She never gave.

(They always left in sighs, huffs, and desolate disappointment. She would laugh behind closed screens and an open fan.)

One day, a new customer arrived: potentially long-staying and vastly rich. Although he was youkai. No matter, this meant more money in the pocket. The mistress sucked in her horse-teeth, tried not to appear _overly_ giddy, and beckoned him in. He glared, scoffed, and waltzed in perfectly acquainted, dismissing her offers of "tea, sweet cakes?"

"I heard you have a human girl who's become quite a commodity."

She agreed, wondering what his ulterior motive was (they always had one).

"Is she available?"

She considered lying. He grinned, saw through the ruse. She could never lie suitably.

"Upstairs, I will show you the room personally."

And the mistress bowed low and politely. He nodded (half a centimeter) and followed her up the rickety, rotten wooden stairs. The smell of smut and sweat weighed down thickly in the air, hovering and sifting in and out of his nostrils. Unpleasant, noxious. He held his breath, sucked in tightly, and marched—ascending—through the billowing curtains.

-

He caressed her cheek with a single clawed hand. She tried not to shudder. He laughed, thinking she was just _so _delightfully afraid.

"I won't hurt you, girlie. If you do what I say."

"And what is it that you want me to do, lord?"

"I'm sure you can figure something out."

Izyaoi nodded and obeyed. Small, dainty hands trailed downwards. Untied the cruel knots, unraveling lifetimes and hatreds long past vengeance. She tried not to look at him (he cupped her face and stared at her through ferocious slits). She sat there rigid, seething, but unmoved. A marble statue.

At least he seemed to enjoy it.

(And maybe she's finally lost her mind.)

-

The youkai lord continued to visit her weekly, sometimes daily (those were the worst days). And he began to bring her gifts. Small things, almost like offerings: dead birds, bones, and dried, taut skins. She thanked him cordially (kept them buried in a chest).

But one day, he brought her something truly precious.

"For you."

—he produced a hairpin with one gruff, magnificent flourish—

"Thank you."

And it really was beautiful: aged wood and stone with jade lapis and a string of pearls dangling from the ornately upwards curving flower.

"The arrangements have been made. You are leaving here today with me."

_Oh._

"Thank you, my lord. I am so very, very grateful."

(He recommenced the nightly ritual. One layer peeled at a time. She hardly detected his movements anymore.)

-

The youkai had a name, but she never addressed him as such. Just like she had once been called Izayoi and was now no more.

He had a wife but she was never mentioned; that was taboo. And the paramount rule was never to break taboo. Izayoi learned this quickly.

"You may do anything you like, as long as you stay out of the way."

She gladly complied. Izayoi wanted peace, _thank you_, and he provided that. (And shelter and food and clothing and…the essentials.) They were both satisfied. She was pretty and he was powerful. And together, it seemed like they could live together without altercations and afflictions.

And then, one day, everything changed.

One day, in late autumn, in late afternoon (the sun slowly sinking), a man stopped by, called himself Onigumo. _Old acquaintance of the lady, I assure you?_ He spoke eloquently, dressed elegantly, and swept the maiden-servants and men-servants (he had panache) off their feet.

Izayoi hid behind a large dresser, trembling. He leered at her through paper screens, yellowed teeth bared, pink-swollen tongue clicking.

Eventually, someone let him in (slipped through the cracks like water into sandy cement) and he kicked up his feet, felt at home. Spacious, voracious, he devoured dishes and dishes of foreign delicacies and flirted with the exotic ladies.

"Who is the mistress of this house?" he asked, pretending not to know.

"Oh, she is the lord's concubine, very shy but kind. She is ill tonight."

Onigumo sighed dramatically, dabbed the grease off his hands on clean white silk. (The servers grimaced, how savage and boorish.)

"Such a pity. I heard she is a real beauty."

Uneasy silence.

"I would love to have met her."

"Perhaps some other time. What is your business here, sir? I pardon for asking again."

"To deliver some _important_ documents. They must be received either by the mistress or the master."

"Ah. I am their most trusted emissary in these matters. Maybe I can take it to the mistress? She is awfully sick, as we have mentioned before."

"No. I am under strict orders to present them _only_ to the master or mistress."

He licked the sake cup dry. _Could get used to this…_

(Tucked under three blankets, Izayoi devised plans to rid her house of the plague. Poison, _poison_, tawdry and efficacious. She wondered—)

They reunited the next morning. She played the miraculous-cure card, and he congratulated her on an impeccable immunity. Izayoi poured his tea personally, and pushed the choicest dishes to his side, all the while smiling pleasantly. In her head, she hummed an execution tune and visualized him speared and gory.

On the opposite end, grunting and chewing loudly—just _barbaric_—Onigumo sized her up and pictured the same ideal. She had made his life miserable, and he only returned the same favor. They were even.

-

He snuck his way in at night, made himself an intrinsic part of the house, irremovable. He was a creep with a wily, wise smile, and tender words. He knew just how to flatter to get what he wanted.

And Izayoi sucked it all in like she actually believed him.

(He used this to his advantage.)

She gave him a job, protected him, convinced the others _oh yes, he is harmless, just an old friend from childhood_. And he showed his gratitude with surreptitious touches and illicit kisses. (The master was always away.)

It was convenient, and Onigumo grew and she thrived too. They were like leeches corroding away the other's membranous skin.

-

When sober, he described her as an orchid—and received courteous nods of approval—and when drunk, she regressed to rust fungi. Blackened and shriveled, she spread out her arms and legs, manipulated.

She slipped him coins and other valuables occasionally (pin money for the wife?). He dressed up in vibrant attire, and soon, came to call himself a _courtier_.

Izayoi relented, promoted him to _head_ gardener—the complete formal title she can't remember—he embraced the comforts of gilded luxury.

-

And then, one night, the master arrived home. Stowed away his swords and pelt, boots went skidding down the hall, and Onigumo was no longer the lady's favorite.

Three months later, Izayoi told Onigumo she was pregnant. He left with an unfinished curse.

**iii.**

Flames were a beautiful affair. Warm and inviting, they extended wispy hands that swore oath to love and honor and devotion. Red like passion, red like the rimmed outlines of her husband's eyes. (And now he was nowhere to be seen.)

Izayoi grabbed her son and rushed outside. Snow drifted down, wetting both of them, soaked and cold to the bone. The world looked bleak, and she looked worse.

She tried gathering her tiny son in her arms, robes undulating wildly as wind howled through her pathetic barriers. Inuyasha squirmed and in_sis_ted and de_man_ded to be released, to "go back", to "I forgot something, I need it". Izayoi kept him hushed.

"Listen, we have to get away from here. Do you understand?"

Inuyasha whimpered but nodded understanding. She kissed him lightly.

_Wait—_

"Izayoi!" (sans honorifics) "Looks like we meet again."

Izayoi glanced up, shielding Inuyasha from whatever the silhouette symbolized, auguring omens and illness and all things _bad_.

"Who are you?" she asked.

He pushed back the straw hat, revealing a sinister face at last. "You don't remember me?"

"Onigumo," it came out as a sighed relief. _Better than nothing_.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it? Seems like you…and the brat…are in a bit of trouble."

"And you are offering us….help?"

"No. Salvation."

-

Through fire and ice, Onigumo brought them to haven. An inconspicuous house located miles off the beaten road, by the base of a cliff, and tied desperately with bamboo ropes, it awaited them in quiet slumber.

He lifted her from the horse, placed her gently on the frozen ground, and attended to her son. (The brat refused to speak and snarled back with hanyou—half-bite—brutality.) Onigumo laughed and patted him on the head, _what a funny little guy_.

(Izayoi stood lost in a trance.)

"So this is your home now, Onigumo?"

"Yes."

—and led them inside—

He lit fatty candles (cheap animal lipids) and illuminated the dingy room. Izayoi gasped in shock: the _horror_. Run-down, shabby, and in decay. The room reeked of poison and paint (sake stored and forgotten for too long). The walls creaked and swayed, threatening to topple over any moment. And the floors, the worst, insects—_spiders_—crawled all over the bare wood ground.

Izayoi thought she had died. Amazingly, Onigumo managed to resurrect her with a smile and some hot tea.

"We can stay here…with you?"

"Izayoi, I am a simple man. I do not like to play games. Yes, you can stay here—both of you—but you have to earn your keep. I am poor," _and you will become poor too_.

"I will do my share."

She clutched Inuyasha closer, gripped so tightly on his shoulders that he began to cry.

-

They constructed a make-shift home. Izayoi purged her body of cultural doctrines and what is forbidden and what is acceptable. (Inuyasha was still too young to notice.)

Onigumo made sure they always had food and a little else. But that was enough, and Izayoi slowly warmed up to him.

And sometimes, she even smiled genuinely (tried not to think of nightfall and what that implied). Because, really, she was so _grateful_. He had _saved_ them. So it was only _right_ that she bowed low and obsequiously and offered her thanks.

"I made your favorite dish tonight."

He grunted.

(Inuyasha cowered behind bone chopsticks—stolen from his childhood home—and tried not to focus on his mother's tears.)

Slip and fall, they all hurl down, down, down.

-

They ate thin rice porridge laced with bitter, spicy pickles. Sometimes, Onigumo would catch them a fish, but that was a rare occasion. And Izayoi could only lament over the past (the fish cooled and no one said a word).

And nothing ever happened.

-

One day, a youkai arrived. Tall and dashing, brimming with confidence, the antithesis of her pseudo-husband. Izayoi looked up from her sewing and welcomed him warmly.

He brought her a new kimono, the highest quality silk, and three hair ornaments. The first, he said, was a peony for youth. The second (baby's breath commemorated in glass beads) was for Inuyasha's birth. The Inu no Tasishou did not forget (even though he died years ago, when they needed him most). And the third, the most exquisite, was a simple ivory pin with carvings spelling out their names.

"And now that all the frivolities are out of the way," the youkai cleared his throat, "You are not the easiest person to find, Izayoi-sama. You have been missing for nearly four months."

_Oh, was that all?_

—What felt like centuries—

"Luckily, I am a skilled tracker. And well…here you are!"

"Why are you here?"

"To take you away from this dump. The master, before he died, made arrangements that should anything happen to him, you and…"

"—Inuyasha."

"Right. To be moved to a human court. And now, my lady, you can say goodbye to filth and squalor."

"That is where we are to live?"

"Yes. I'm sure you'll find the accommodations very familiar."

"Like…it was before?"

He smiled (_very_ handsome, she thought) and offered out one, sharp, heavily scarred hand. She took it with grace, reached for Inuyasha, and did not look back. Onigumo, just visible beyond the valley—a way down the rolling, steep hill—saw her scrambling up a horse and made a wild dash forward.

She waved goodbye, and that was that. No words needed be said. Onigumo would understand one day. They were still worlds apart.

-

Ironically, the spacious palace of this-nameless infamous warlord was located on what used to be her family's grounds. She recalled the magnificent trees that looked like they were painted, especially when burning against a sublime sunset. They stood the same, resting peacefully in their groves.

It felt like home, and she told this so to Inuyasha (who happened to still be sleeping ensconced in his mother's lap).

What her youkai benefactor failed to mention, however, was that the very same warlord (to be under the pretense of her long-lost "father", who will more than joyously dote on his pretty daughter) who assisted in her family's downfall. But he felt that was a bit _too_ much information. Besides, the master made strict orders not to reveal more than proper.

And so, Izayoi imagined all kinds of incredible back-stories for her and her son and rushed eagerly into her fake-father's arms. (The old, wizened man was in shock but patted her back. She was very attractive, and already, his mind was wiring to seduce her classily.)

**iv.**

Years went by uncounted. Her once lustrously black hair was now spotted with grey and the absolutely most _dreadful_ white. Inuyasha grew tall and strong, but still scrawny for his age (particularly considering that he was half-youkai) but Izayoi did not fret. He will fill out one day and become _just like his father_.

That became the mantra keeping her glued to this world.

She coddled him, submitted to his wishes and megrims, and thought the life of a virtual slave really wasn't so bad. Because he was "special" because he was _hanyou_ (another odious term) because everyone else hated him.

Even with motherly love and devotion and complete, consummate _worship_, Izayoi couldn't hide the fact that Inuyasha was a little slow. He never learned to heed her words, avoid the other children, and _stay behind me_. He rushed out beyond their wonderfully barricaded rooms early in the morning and did not return until late at night. Covered in bruises.

"You should be more careful," she would say (only after he lied about the contusions' origins).

"Yeah, I know."

And she would sigh and tuck him into bed. At least she still had that right.

(This was just prior to preparing herself for the fake-father's visit. Something broke in her head, and she came to see him as an almost-rescuer.)

-

Rumors were an enticingly tricky business. Subterfuge and prestige and much legerdemain spent. Izayoi shook violently as she kept her words and anger bottled up inside.

"They say he's insane."

She didn't doubt that.

"Has a _criminal_ past."

Well, obviously since he had become a heartless, murdering thief. _Graverobber_.

"They say he's looking for _someone_, and all this looting and killing is coincidental."

That was hilarious. Incredulous.

"You shouldn't worry so much, Otou-sama," Izayoi murmured sweetly.

"I shouldn't be worrying _you_ with all this. I'm sure half of it is nonsense anyway. You are safe here, my dearest. Father will protect you."

-

The ignominious Otou-sama was slain one month later, drowned on his own blood in sleep. Izayoi mourned to the best of her abilities, but was secretly just so relieved to have been spared.

And her son. Inuyasha was safe too.

-

On her thirty-sixth birthday, there was an ostentatious party held in her honor. She was the beloved daughter of the beloved (now deceased) lord. And so, she deserved heaps and heaps of respect and praise.

Even Inuyasha was left alone that night and suffered only a few half-hearted punches from the other brats. (As for the name of Inuyasha's father and heritage, the Inu no Taishou's emissary—and several large trunks of "dowry"—dispelled any further questioning.)

The courtiers, freeloaders, and even Otou-sama's concubines lavished her with presents and petted Inuyasha like a pretty puppy. She thanked them, calculated how much money she could get by pawning off the gifts, and how long she and Inuyasha could survive.

(Not long. She plotted to steal more from the main house later.)

In the meantime, she might as well bask in the limelight and milk every last silver coin from these idiots. _And they treated you so kindly_. —But they were cruel to Inuyasha. And that's what she chose to remember.

-

Izayoi prepared their departure by moonlight, too afraid to light candles.

She packed their heaviest clothing and the Fire Rat robe. Food, the money and jewels, and little else. She bundled Inuyasha up warmly, even though it was summer and he was hanyou, and his protests were bound to draw attention.

"Wait," Izayoi commanded.

Inuyasha sniffled and stifled cries welling up in his throat.

-

An hour passed, and Izayoi did not return.

-

Two servants seeking a private, coital sanctuary discovered a mangled body in the morning.

Bloody and torn, stabbed multiple times, and kimono skirt all askew—Izayoi lied face-down in a puddle of crimson blood. Face in agony, body in torment, she had been dead since midnight, at least.

And unfortunately, that was the end. Story done, lives move on. Abrupt and swift. No one important to be remembered.

She was just another weed strangled in its prime.

-

By a chilly creek, at six in the morning, Onigumo washed out his blood-stained clothes and wiped clean his sword.

It was justified, only _right_. He did what he had to do.


End file.
